


to steal the breath

by StormySkiesAhead



Series: pestilence loves war (more than any other) [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: 1918 flu pandemic, Alternate Universe - Almost Everybody Lives/Somebody Dies, Canon Divergence - Order 66, Clone Rights, F/F, F/M, Influenza, Jedi Politics (Star Wars), Light Angst, Other, Pandemic - Freeform, Politics, The Star Wars Gets The Flu AU, aftermath of pandemic, anakin hugs fives who is crying in this one so that's nice, but i needed y'all to know, not relevant to the fic for the most part, scene was cut but: glen is In Love with his general, seriously read opened up the window first, suicide in an alternate timeline mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22382212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormySkiesAhead/pseuds/StormySkiesAhead
Summary: They aren’t fast enough.Grebe isn’t the only one to blame himself, he knows that perfectly well. Their General has always been one for visiting the ill, and refused to go into quarantine, up until the point where the symptoms had begun. They’d locked themselves in with the sick the second they’d begun to show symptoms.The young Knight is the picture of the perfect influenza victim- young, human, fit, unexposed- to anything, really- with no vaccinations that would be able to fight anything similar off. It's no wonder the disease drags them down so quickly, but it digs at Grebe all the same.-The victims stand tall, and shout back.
Relationships: Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, background mention of keziah/talia
Series: pestilence loves war (more than any other) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1566916
Comments: 15
Kudos: 50





	to steal the breath

**Author's Note:**

> hm. this is nice?

They aren’t fast enough.

Grebe isn’t the only one to blame himself, he knows that perfectly well. Their General has always been one for visiting the ill, and refused to go into quarantine, up until the point where the symptoms had begun. They’d locked themselves in with the sick the second they’d begun to show symptoms.

The young Knight is the picture of the perfect influenza victim- young, human, fit, unexposed- to anything, really- with no vaccinations that would be able to fight anything similar off. It's no wonder the disease drags them down so quickly, but it digs at Grebe all the same. He still remembers when he'd met them, when he hadn't been much more than a medic with a chosen name after a Terran bird and the designation CT-6782.

They'd been magnificent, taller than the brothers by at least a hair, with an infectious, bright smile and a sunny disposition. A young Knight, no Padawan yet, taking out their parental instincts on their wartime charges.

Grebe will likely grieve for them for the rest of his artificially shortened lifespan. Nant had been the best thing to ever happen to the 284th- not the most experienced, no, but a kind heart and a gentle soul, who pulled them aside when they saw that one of the brothers was having a hard time.

Grebe cries. He's the last one to have seen them, to have seen them lucid, with a dreamy, warm smile, still telling Grebe to take care of himself, damnit.

He clings tightly to the lightsaber clutched in his hands. If he flicked it on, he'd see a brilliant green- what Nant would have said was the sign of a thinker, a healer, rather than the sharp-witted and quick-acting personalities that tend to attach themselves to blue sabers.

His next assignment is with the 212th, of course. They split those closest to Nant back into legions that have Jedi generals, and for Grebe, the medic who needs the  _ most _ emotional support out of any of them, there are only three options: the 104th, the 123rd, and the 212th.

He hears, later, from the Commander himself that there had been threats of recall flown around about Grebe over his grieving, but that the Generals had picked up on it and had fought for his transfer.

Grebe looks at the 212th though, and sees everything the 284th has done wrong. Their  _ jetii _ is alive. Their men are recovering, but not gutted like the 284th had been. They acted quickly and decisively and saved many lives.

It makes his failure sting even worse.

Sometimes, Grebe has worse days than most, and he takes the saber out from where it’s hidden- Nant had a  _ will _ , of all things, stating that their saber would protect their men until it was no longer needed for such and then and  _ only _ then could the saber be treated-

He rolls it over in his hands, touches one hand to orange paint where there once was teal.

“Hey,” a quiet voice hums, and Grebe looks up to a familiar face- the Commander. He lurches to attention and wipes his face.

“Ah- Sir! I apologize for the lapse in judgement, sir, I’ll-”

“The  _ jetii  _ wish to speak with you about something, Grebe,” Cody says, “Something  _ very _ important. You remember how we sent you under surgery within your first week or so of joining us? This is why.”

Grebe’s dark eyes (darker than everyone else’s- Grebe’s always been under recall threats for not being  _ the same, _ but he guesses if they're going to recall him they won't put him in a meeting with the  _ jetii, _ who don't know recall is a thing, and the Commander, who would be opposed to it) widen dramatically.

“Ah, Medic Grebe, it's a pleasure to see you again. Please, sit.”

“Master, I still think  _ telling them _ is a terrible idea, at least at the beginning-”

There's the tell-tale rasp of General Skywalker. Funny, that such a once loud man is now known for the hoarseness of his throat (and by funny, Grebe means not at all).

“We can't risk emotional breakdowns once troopers have been assigned to the Crèche, we all know how Corporal Jay reacted, and while obsessively guarding infants and toddlers is  _ adorable, _ Anakin,  _ we had to sedate him less than a week after he found out so he wouldn't accidentally kill himself. _ Therefore, information first, assignment after.”

The good-natured but off-putting smile belongs to General Tavi, whose wings are fanned out so far that the holographic projection can't quite catch all of them, and tapers out by the time the flight feathers start appearing.

“My apologies, sirs, but what is this about?”

“You were very close to Knight Nant Gardenian, yes?” General Kenobi asks. Grebe realizes that he’s still clutching the lightsaber like some sort of security item, but he can't make himself let it go.

“Yessir,” Grebe says in reply, before choking up, “They were… they were my friend.”

“You… might want to sit down, to hear this,” General Skywalker says. Beside him is a trooper with an all-fives designation.

Grebe sits.

As they explain, tears well up in his night-dark eyes. How could he- Grebe can't even imagine-

(In another life, Grebe still wouldn't have been able to pull the trigger, because the Grebe of that timeline flings himself from the cliff they're standing on before the chip can assert complete dominance.

It doesn't save Nant in that life, either, but Nant’s ghost catches Grebe’s on the way down.)

“Sirs?” he asks, schooling his voice as well as he can. The three- no, four Jedi, General Yoda is here, though the surprisingly powerful and exceedingly small General has not said a single word this conversation.

“Grebe,” General Kenobi says, “How good are you with children, and how willing would you be to learn?”

Grebe’s brain shorts out, for just a moment.

“I- I'm rather fond of them, actually. Nant- the General- they loved taking care of children, and I was always happy to be along for the ride, so to speak.”

“So you would not object to being rotated to working within the Temple itself?”

Grebe stares.

“You- this- thank you,” he finally manages, “I would  _ love _ to protect  _ jetii _ children.”

“Ah, you'll fit in well,” General Skywalker says, “And they need a  _ medic _ , primarily. Commander Cody suggested you, and just for future reference? Younglings  _ adore _ stories.”

“I'll keep that under advisement, Sir.”

He does. Even when the war ends for good, Grebe won't stop guarding the Temple, caring for the children. It heals his soul, to watch them grow.

Grebe lives another thirty, forty years after that- he lost track after twenty-five, he thinks. It's long enough to see an infant or five or more brought to the Crèche grow up big and strong, and take Padawans of their own under their wings.

Some fail out, of course. One, Grebe knows, becomes a Temple Guard.

Life keeps on moving.

* * *

_ Recall. _

It's such a pretty, pretty word, the kind of pretty that hides something utterly revolting just beneath its surface, like gold spray paint on rotting flesh.

Murder is a neater word, a simpler word, one that doesn’t just suggest retraining, but it does have its connotations, chief among them that the victims are  _ people. _

“Strip the silken words from the rotten bones that lay beneath, and you will understand,” Mordechai growls, “It is  _ murder, _ plain and simple. If it would be wrong to do to a ‘native-born’ Republic citizen, it is wrong to do to you.”

“ _ I _ know that, though it  _ is _ nice to hear a  _ jetii _ agreeing with that sentiment.”

“Did you think we wouldn't?” Mordechai asks. He can't hide the tremor in his voice, at that. He can hear Glen’s breath hitching, can practically see the internal debate- whether to lie to him, and tell him no, the  _ vod’e _ had always thought the Jedi would take their side in this, or admit the truth.

“Mordechai,” Glen says, and there’s a bit of warmth spreading through the T’karian’s chest at that, because it's taken  _ ages _ to get Glen comfortable with the fact that as long as Mordechai is there, he has a friend in the  _ jetii _ , “I'm going to be honest with you. I didn't.”

Glen remembers a warm voice attached to a ridiculously tall man, a half-sung “we don't deadname here, now what do you call yourself?”, years of care and protecting. He remembers clawed hands on a ‘saber and teeth crushing the heads of droids, and  _ knows _ he was mistaken, because the  _ jetii _ in front of them loves each and every one of them with all of his heart, no matter how much that doesn’t seam to matter at times.

* * *

Isti is another transplant, another new person to the 123rd, though one of only a few of that kind with an immunization instead of a hard-won battle with influenza. He’s wide-eyed and curious, and Glen likes him, likes him because every other person seems to like Isti, the sweet little Shiny with a passion for surgery like nobody’s ever seen in a brother before.

“There's field medics, obviously,” Glen says, animatedly waving his hands over his head. Mordechai and Taina both nod along, “But that's clearly not enough for him. He needs-”

“- actual medical school,” Mordechai replies, sitting up in his seat, fangs flashing.

Isti the Shiny goes to medical school on Terra, in a massive old building that’s just over two thousand years old. He shows the rest of the 123rd holos of it, and physical photographs- Terrans like keeping things old-fashioned at times- and the textures and sounds and everything else that Isti describes sink in like nothing else.

Isti is in training for neurosurgery.

It's the one thing that they can give him, really, the only thing that will carry him through.

* * *

There is one ship- a ghost ship- where nobody lived.

They whisper its name, between the brothers. A legion with a GAR general who refused quarantine- a man named Tarkin, one they all shudder at, still.

The one thing they don't say, when they whisper about the ship of the dead, is that it was on purpose.

Padmé thinks some cruelties are unavoidable- the casualty counts even under kind, caring,  _ worried _ Masters such as Plo Koon attest to that.

But Tarkin?

Thinking of the man makes her ill.

“Too slow,” he’d snorted at the research being done, “And too peaceable for such a good weapon.” And then his men fell sick, and he took matters into his own hands.

The younglings tell the ghost story in the truest way, of an evil man, high on power and cruelty. They tell the stories of experimentations, even when their stubby, clumsy tongues can't quite wrap around the word properly and it falters on its way out of their mouths. They whisper of screams, and sing of tears and anger, and the anger in those songs rises in a cloud, terrible and great, amongst the Padawans.

For the Masters can be distant, even those more connected than most. The Masters can take a step back and wrangle their grief and the grief of others under their control again. The Knights can, too, though to a lesser extent.

The Padawans, though?

The Padawans can do anything but.

The whispers grow, as whispers always do.

* * *

The whispers become a wail before long. Taina speaks to the younglings who’ve heard the stories from loose-lipped guards who've left their designations long behind, then passes what she’s heard along to Ahsoka, who passes it along herself.

It winds from Tano to Skywalker to Kenobi back through to Windu and finally, finally, the whispers wrap themselves around Yoda, pass their knowledge into his always-listening ears.

The Council is up in arms by the next day, vibrating with frustration just a hair’s breadth away from rage. There are a few spots of calm in the mess, the usual suspects-

Yoda, who has been unflappable since the day he was born (Tavi, who is just a few hundred years over double his age, can attest to that)-

Mace Windu, who’s heard earlier than most, and has moved on from that particular stage of grieving unlike the rest of the Masters-

And Mordechai Tavi, who is calm because his anger, his panic, his grieving- it will not serve  _ anyone,  _ much less the people he should be helping.

Skywalker is still violently angry. He’s not been invited to this meeting for that reason in particular, too busy screaming into the void until he can calm down enough to be useful. Skywalker angry and grieving is something none of them want- the man is a hurricane on the best of days, but when he’s even mildly under control and not feeling  _ oh-so-helpless-oh-so-useless _ , he’s a  _ directed _ hurricane.

Kenobi is missing because he’s gone to calm down Skywalker so the man doesn't hurt himself screaming.

“Done, everyone is?” Yoda asks. The Masters stop pacing, one by one, and fall into their seats, eyes as hollow as the living victims among their men.

The rest fall silent, as the Grandmaster swirls together something resembling a plan.

* * *

The plan falls into a dozen or more steps, but the most simplified version of how they begin to execute it goes as follows:

First, they inform the men. Whispers travel quickly, but wails travel faster. The men hear of the ship of ghosts, but they  _ know _ how upset the  _ jetii _ are by it, especially when they learn of the cadets on board as well.

The men under GAR generals learn from their brothers, but the men under the  _ jetii _ learn as soon as the plan is decided upon.

Captains whisper downwards instructions to go to the Generals directly if they're confused (for games of telephone are death to a strike). 

Secondarily, lines of communication are opened and broadened, to Senators and planetary leaders alike.

Third: opposition is identified. Whispers of something entirely different grow louder and louder and louder until some twist uncomfortably in their too-comfortable chairs. Those whispers are  _ Senator _ Tavi’s doing, an intelligence officer through and through no matter how many years it’s been.

Fourth: opposition is taken care of. Whether it be by threats (Skywalker) by sweet words (Amidala) or by blackmail (the older Tavi), Senators and Representatives begin to back their way down.

Or, in some cases, change their minds.

Fifth: secure witnesses.

The Kaminoans can't know. That's the one thread that rumbles through, the one thread that hums its way back to each and every one of the men-  _ if you fear recall, if you fear experimentation, you go to the  _ jetii  _ FIRST above all others- _

The information pours in like a whirlwind.

Thankfully, Keziah Tavi’s mother-in-law has quite the pull back home (Keziah’s wife would snort and call that an understatement, but she’s not here and  _ they can't know- _ ). Men who would ordinarily be threatened out of testifying find themselves safe on a friendly planet.

That goes the same for Naboo, and for Alderaan, and a half-dozen other worlds, but mostly the first three.

The Chancellorship is still unfilled.

* * *

Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker sits and stares.

He knows, in theory, that the Council is wise beyond their ridiculously many years, and that they're quick to act when they see the need, but this is beyond impressive.

He gets sixteen terrified soldiers in his office on the first  _ day.  _ Anakin isn't good at being calming, at speaking soothing words and running his fingers through another person’s hair to anchor them. That's Obi-Wan’s job, affectionate as he is with his men.

Fives curls up next to Anakin’s side and cries, and Anakin finds his chin on Fives’s head as he tucks the clone against him in a hug, muttering soft assurances, mind screaming for retribution.

Fives isn't the only one who’s gotten it bad, but he has gotten some of the worst of it. He’d found out about the chips just before the outbreak, right in the window where there wasn't enough time to kick up a fuss- he'd been on  _ Coruscant _ while so many others in the 501st were dying (Anakin included, if he's going to be honest with himself). Guilt wracked the man’s entire body, and it’s taken a long time for Anakin to wrangle anything out of him that’s not shaking in guilt or sobbing in fear for his brothers.

As much as the men like to talk the talk, they're still  _ people, _ and all people have a breaking point. Anakin tries his best to shepherd Fives through his. He really is genuinely worried for the man, but Fives eventually acquiesces to hugs and gentle words from his brothers, Ashoka, or Anakin himself.

It's kind of sweet, if he’s being entirely honest about the whole thing, but Anakin dearly wishes it hadn't taken what it had to get Fives to open up on an emotional level.

Most of the time, nowadays, he lets Fives watch over Ashoka, knowing that the clone will  _ never _ falter in this duty, not even for a moment.

Once he’s done this, nowadays, Anakin heads to the Senate.

* * *

The hearings are, to put it mildly, the fight of everyone involved’s lives. The back-and-forth starts out mildly, with Tarkin’s colleagues speaking out in his favor, recommending him for awards. This, of course, is before the coalition springs their trap.

Once they do, the mildness burns away, leaving nothing but acid and capsaicin.

And, clearly, the coalition likes spicy food.

Anakin thinks that if he hadn't fallen in love with Padmé years ago, when he’d seen the steel in her spine and her eyes and called her an angel, he would have fallen in love with her now.

Now, everyone else can see she’s made of durasteel, to strong to bend and too flexible to break. Anakin lurks, as often as he can (it's a  _ ceasefire,  _ and he's not going to be sent on negotiation missions anyways), but doesn't distract his wife.

Padmé is not the only one who raises their chin and shouts aloud their dignity. Anakin and Obi-Wan have made friends of just about half the Senate, and Padmé and her team (primarily Tavi and Organa) have done the rest, raising up voices too quiet to be ordinarily heard as they all scream, a hundred, five hundred,  _ thousands _ of voices, all at once, all so angry it  _ aches _ to see it.

‘ _ This is a queen, and this is her kingdom,’ _ Anakin thinks, as Padmé’s voice drowns out them all.

* * *

The healing is slow going, among the men.

Rex and Cody have each lost many. Rex thinks he’s had the worse of it, but Cody’s men were hit worse than the average by far.

Influenza is a young man’s disease, after all.

So, apparently, is gossip.

The push and pull of  _ have you heard _ has become a tidal wave, a riptide, crashing down and threatening to pull Rex out to sea with it.

“Have you heard?” a brother in the halls calls to another.

“Have you heard?” says a youngling.

“Have you heard?” asks a Knight, rushing through the temple.

“Have you heard?” cries Cody, “The Generals have come through, this time.”

Rex turns on the holovid. Anakin Skywalker stands, the picture of protectiveness, eyes screaming  _ mine, mine, mine _ for thousands to see it.

“It's not right,” he says, so simply Rex could cry, “They're people too, and you've forgotten that for too long.”

Rex finds tears in his eyes and fire under his skin. Long-forgotten instincts sing  _ mine mine mine _ right back, wrapping around every brother they can reach. It burns, catching against the whole city-planet, every off-duty brother glued to a holovid as surely as they’d been when the outbreak was highest, desperately awaiting news.

Rex thinks he can wait. It’s  _ his _ people running this show, after all- he’ll find out sooner rather than later.

**Author's Note:**

> WHOA HEY??? I'VE BEEN POSTING A LOT OF STUFF LATELY!  
> okay so i said it would be stuff w tea between obi wan and dooku. i am a lying liar who lies, unfortunately, because I wanted to have more mordechai and glen interacting and also some things happening in the political sphere. this happened.  
> i ADORE any anidala fics where anakin is soft for padmé's command in her region of expertise.  
> also!!! grebe!!! he didn't exist before this particular fic in the series but grebe moves into the creche and never leaves.


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